"Eugenia is so beautiful because she is so chaste and pure," sighed Glauke, who had heard a part of the conversation. Gazing sorrowfully after the bride, she lowered her long lashes. "No wonder that you hold her so firmly," Modigisel now said aloud in a jeering tone. "After your attempt to abduct her failed, you besought the old grain-usurer to give you the dainty doll as honorably as any Roman fuller or baker ever wooed the daughter of his neighbor, the cobbler." "Yes," assented Gundomar; "but he has celebrated the wedding with as much splendor as though he were wedding the daughter of an emperor." "The splendor of the wedding is more to him than the bride," cried Gundobad, laughing. "Certainly not," said Thrasaric, slowly. "But one thing is true: since I have known that she is--that she will be mine--the frantic longing for her--yet no--that is not true either, I love her fondly. I suppose it is the wine! The heat! And so much wine!" "Nothing but wine can help wine," laughed Modigisel. "Here, slaves, bring Bacchus a second Oceanus." Thrasaric instantly took a deep draught from the goblet. "Well?" whispered Modigisel. "I will give you for make-weight to Astarte my whole fishpond full of muraense, besides the royal villa at Grasse, for--" "I am no glutton," replied Thrasaric, indignantly. "I will add my villa in Decimum; true, I bequeathed it to Astarte; but she will consent. Won't you?" Astarte nodded silently. Her nostrils were quivering. Thrasaric shook his shaggy head. "I have more villas than I can occupy. Hark, the blast of a tuba. The races ought to begin. Here, little brother! He has gone. Horses, wine, and dice are the three greatest pleasures. I would give the salvation of my soul for the best horse in the world. But--" he took another draught, of wine--"the best horse! It has escaped me. Through my own folly! I would give ten Eugenias in exchange." Astarte laid an ice-cold finger on Modigisel's bare arm; he looked up; she whispered something, and he nodded in pleased astonishment. "The best horse? What is its name? And how did it escape you?" "It is called--the Moorish name cannot be pronounced; it is all _ch_! We called it Styx. It is a three-year-old black stallion of Spanish breed, with a Moorish strain, reared in Cyrene. A short time ago, when the valiant king so eagerly began his preparations for war, the Moors were informed that we nobles needed fine horses. Among many others, Sersaon, the grandson of the old chief Cabaon, came to Carthage; he brought of all the good horses the very best." "Yes! we know them!" the Vandals assented.